


Distance

by orphan_account



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pseudo-Incest, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-13
Updated: 2006-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-14 17:52:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duncan, in Mexico, thinking about Veronica and Lilly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distance

**Author's Note:**

> Introductory lyric from the song "Radio Cure" by Wilco.

  
**  
_Oh, distance has no way of making love understandable._   
****  
**   


You’re staring at this dancing girl, a vision of thick black hair and tan flat belly, shaking her hips at you in lustful invitation. But the truth is, you don’t even want to fuck her. She’s not your type.

Your type is blonde. Petite. Your sister.

Jesus, you need another drink. You order one in broken Spanish, rub at your sweaty beard. Cuba is a nightmare, a nightmare of a different kind than what you’re used to.

Lilly doesn’t visit you here, not at night, not during the day. Maybe you’re too far away from the poolside in Neptune where she lay, bloodied and broken. Maybe you pissed off her ghost by running away.

Veronica thinks you killed Lilly. If you did or if you didn’t, you can’t remember. That night, like so many others, is a blue-green blur.

You ran because you were afraid Veronica was right. You ran because you think about Veronica, killing her or fucking her, Lilly whispering encouragement in your ears. Two sisters, two nights of “If I’m drunk, does that make it all right?” All this guilt gathering inside you. VeronicaLilly, LillyVeronica. They always looked enough alike to be twins…

You thought the distance would make things easier. You thought you could forget. But you still think of your sisters, dream of the soft blonde hair between their legs, until the bile rises in your throat and you‘re retching dirty secrets into dirtier toilets.

Maybe you should fuck the dancer. Somehow, someday, something has to help you forget.


End file.
